King's Repose
by Varai
Summary: "For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."


_Ade-ri vo, ke cat-hal thres vo vreten i._

Without expection, there cannot be disappointment.

And yet, there were no words for the frustration she felt.

The drink she nursed held a fearsome amount of alcohol. Though her system typically burned through the toxin easily enough, she found that if enough of a substance was consumed, its effects were unavoidable, really. Not that she minded. This was self-inflicted and entirely welcome. It swam in her blood and coiled around her limbs like liquid tranquility, causing her muscles to slacken and delay in their responses. She held the glass to her trembling lips and missed. Umber liquor leapt free and was absorbed into the unfinished oak of the floor; she cursed lewdly and righted her booze, wiping without conviction at an errant trickle escaping towards her chin.

_ Is this how far I've fallen?_

It would seem so.

The faceless denizens hadn't even spared her a glance. Muted conversation died and they leaked away from the establishment as the evening turned black and starless. Eventually, the bartender retired as well, dragging her melted body out the door to rest, awkwardly folded inward, against the outer wall of his business. Lights blinked off and she was left to her inebriated bliss, surrounded by abhorrent smells and the interminable din of the slums.

* * *

><p>"—'ere like some rumlogged rat! Gerrup, blast it all!"<p>

"Ngh, ruh...?"

"Isilme!"

Hands hooked under her arms and leveled her with the rest of the world. She clutched at her hair and moaned as she rode the undulations of vertigo, trying to will her body back to the pitted concrete. Her captor was having none of it, however, and shook her violently until lucidity broadsided her like a backhand to the face. As it was, that's exactly what roused the ruined young woman. When her field of vision floated, widened and then sharpened painfully, she was able to glare at her longtime friend, rubbing her stinging left cheek. It registered faintly that it was now mid-morning.

"What the hell, Dem? What the f—"

He slapped her again. _"Isilme!"_

_ "What?"_

He needn't answer that. She stilled when he grasped her wrists, and started to cry. The man released her, only to gather the woman back to his chest to hold her while she dribbled incoherently into his shirt.

"Run inta trouble, eh." he muttered. After a few moments of total vulnerability, Isilme pulled away, now mostly in possession of her faculties, if a little lightheaded. Horror flashed across her features when she caught her reflection in the bar's window, and she hastily smoothed her shirt into shape and hitched her too-large jeans back up to settle her waist. Her hair, normally straight and tame, had succumbed to the night's activities and was beyond help. Dismayed, she also noticed that she wasn't wearing any shoes, and probably not for her normal reason.

"Goddess."

"Nothin' she can do a' this point," Dem muttered smugly. "Wha' 'appened?"

Recollection momentarily failed her. She didn't remember much of the previous day. In response, she shrugged.

Dem looked suspicious. "Didn' yeh apply fer SOLDIER...?"

"Ohh." Yeah. The receptionist had barely spared her a look or a listen before _kindly_ suggesting she find her way back to the door, muttering obscenities too vulgar to even dwell upon. The rejection had been so complete, there was little doubt that her established dream was an utter waste of time and training.

"I take i' yeh been luckless, darlin'."

"Entirely," Isilme conceded. Years of honing her skill and she hadn't even had the chance to plead her case. _Arrogant, sexist, elitist_—

"'Ey Sil, lemme tell yeh somethin'." She held her friend's mud-colored, heavy-lidded gaze carefully. "I know a lo' abou' SOLDIER. Lemme tell yeh, I can ge' yeh in, methinks. Tha' Lazard fella? I can ge' yeh straigh' in, methinks."

She was too familiar with his exploits to trust that his plan would be anything less than delusional. Nonetheless, she entertained the idea that whatever he had in mind would work better than her previous attempt. "The Director, huh? I imagine he's kind of hard to reach without going through a few bitchy receptionists and nine circles of corporate hell."

"No' if yeh can catch 'im ou' an' abou'."

"Mm. You know where to find him?"

"'E likes ta hang 'round tha' old diner 'bove Plate, no' far from the ShinRa buildin'. Called _Mac's_ o' somethin' trite like tha'. Yeh'll find 'im there, though 'e 'angs pretty low."

Isilme felt something like hope buzz beneath her skin. Or, it could've been the alcohol._ I need to clean up first... _Either way. She hugged Dem, not believing the slummer could get her any dirtier than she already was, and grinned. "I owe you one."

She felt him give a small _hmph_. "More 'n tha', methinks..."

Nothing more needed to be said. She was already running.

* * *

><p>There was an archaic appeal to the eatery to which Lazard was drawn. The decor was aged in style but in the comfortable, homely way that made him feel restful. Besides, eating in the cafeteria at the ShinRa building was detestable (the food was tasteless and the occupants moreso) and he could use the change. The waitress brought him coffee in a small white mug that he accepted with a grateful smile. The next twenty minutes of his lunch were uneventful, as the Director distractedly nibbled at a garden salad while checking for overlooked company updates from his PHS.<p>

It came as a surprise to him, then, when a woman other than his waitress materialized at his booth. "Hello, sir," she said quietly.

He took a moment to catalogue her appearance, though he knew her to be foreign to his acquaintances. Tall, and thin, with no outstanding figure, though he could see the hard lines of muscle on her bare arms; not of hard regime, but hard life. Her features were elegant and attentive, her lips thin. Her hair was a deep mahogany and fell straight, slightly past her shoulders, bangs partially obscuring eyes he deduced to be golden. Attractive at a base level, but her attire confused him. She wore threadbare versions of the black trousers and boots similar to what Lazard was accustomed to seeing amongst the ranks of SOLDIER, and the twin hilts of what was evidently a pair of shortswords peeked from behind her right shoulder, held in a single sheath in a cross-harness fashion across a plain white tank top. The overall effect was completed when she placed a gloved hand on her hip and frowned at his unresponsiveness. "Director Deusericus? I would like to talk to you, if you have the time. My name is Isilme Creel."

* * *

><p>For a second longer, she received no indication that he had acknowledged her words.<p>

The sun edged downward in what was visible of the sky, saturating the diner's warm colors through the window and throwing black shadows diagonally across the Director's face, catching in his glasses and making it impossible to read his eyes. Anticipation made her digits twitch. After that interminable second, Lazard spoke. "Can I help you?" he inquired smoothly.

_No, just stopping by to say hi, how you doing._ An endearing smile curled her mouth. "Maybe. I'd like to ask about joining SOLDIER." Lazard appeared impassive still, but she was in no hurry to relinquish his attention. If there was hope in a situation she'd latch on, alright; she just didn't take well to being spurned.

"This is hardly the orthodox method to do so." His words were clipped without sounding harsh, something she appreciated. She knew Lazard to be smooth and tactful and, if the media was to be believed, even compassionate towards the less fortunate. For that reason, she had specifically dressed in such a way as to convey mild poverty, though she was of the mind to bring her blades to show that she was to be taken seriously.

"Let me explain, sir."

Lazard was clearly curious. Progress. "Please, miss Creel, sit." He gestured to the seat across the table with an immaculately white-clad hand, which she slipped into gracefully.

Isilme took a measured breath. "Director, I can't be certain of the complete criteria required to join, so I don't even know whether women are allowed in." She caught any illicit remarks regarding the topic before they reached her tongue. "However, I'd like the opportunity to prove myself as an able pair of hands to the operation. It's my belief that I'm more than qualified."

She thought it was going well. Then Lazard inclined his head and had the gall to _laugh_ at her, albeit near-silently, shoulders shaking, while her own drooped in despondence. She was formulating a defense when the Director chuckled, "You must've run afoul Ernesta." When confusion was Isilme's only reaction, he clarified, "When her daily reports were delivered to my desk yesterday, I detected a trace of irritability when mentioning her visitors. Your impression on her was not favorable, I take it?"

"I guess not," Isilme muttered, withering but grateful for the lightened atmosphere.

"Given, she is not the most agreeable woman." He cleared his throat softly. "There is no rule stating that a woman is prohibited from being integrated into the SOLDIER program," Lazard continued. "Nevertheless, the physical requirements are difficult for even the adept, and mako is very trying on the system, miss Creel." His explanation was offered with sympathy. Isilme decided to like the Director, even if she disagreed. The men of her hometown had said much the same about the fleshly demands of battle when she volunteered to defend against the local monsters, even if she had been trained by the same instructor. Trained _more extensively than they_ by the same masterful instructor. She had bested most of them in both hand-to-hand and swordplay, and that was only because the other's hadn't felt the need to challenge her yet.

"I actually worked as town militia for a couple of years, sir. I'm combat-ready."

"Oh? Which town?"

"Icicle Inn. Born and raised, sir."

Lazard nodded. Speared a tomato. Chewed thoughtfully, swallowed. "Hardy people, them," he reflected, so softly Isilme guessed he was talking to himself. Beneath the table her hands twisted and intertwined incessantly, her boot tapping a silent but frenzied beat against the floor. _I'll make you proud, Papa, watch me._ "I have nothing but the highest expectations of my men. Training is rigorous, missions are unforgiving, death is always an option," he persisted, raising a pale brow to literally heighten his point.

Isilme worried her lower lip and countered, "I am intimately familiar with warfare. I have taken orders from my superiors and followed them to the letter. I'm proficient with several classes of weapons. I am not fragile... sir," she finished with a dangerous, golden glint in her eye that she hoped would satisfy him. Her short list of qualifications held just the right amount tacky self-confidence.

The Director drew himself erect, fingers steepled on the aluminum table. Isilme felt her pulse thunder beneath his calculating gaze _(goddess, make this end)_ and almost feared a heart attack until he nodded again, slowly this time, cracked a smile, and asked, "What time is best for you to come in for your examination?"

This evoked a quick squeak of unadulterated delight from the young woman; she hurriedly clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle the childish sound. "Thank you, sir. I'm ready now, sir!" she replied eagerly, already leant forward to exit the diner, working to steady her nerves—though for entirely different reasons than when she had entered.

"Of course." Lazard sipped at his coffee, in no comparable hurry to the twitching young woman. Neither said another word until the Director payed the bill and stood. Isilme followed his example, drawing herself up proudly, not bothering to hide her zeal. She noticed distractedly that she was a mere inch shorter than the man. "I will escort you to Headquarters. Follow me, please." Dutifully, she did, bearing with fulfillment the wondering glances they received on their course. It took much internal convincing to ease the flutter of satisfaction, knowing that she could still fail preliminary testing, have an adverse reaction to the mako, anger the wrong supervisor... now, all Isilme could do was her best. Resolved, she followed.

* * *

><p>The trip was a short one. She tilted her head back to absorb the sight of the monstrous edifice, momentarily humbled. The doors slid aside and she crossed the threshold to her fate. Everything was hyper-modern; she reminded herself that ShinRa was the spearhead of technological revolution, a fearfully efficient apparatus that couldn't be questioned. Not safely, anyway. It didn't bother her. Authority was necessary, and if the authority needed to work through fear to accomplish stability, then it was still doing its office.<p>

Isilme had remained carefully neutral on the subject of the Wutai War. While she believed the Wutaians' hubris was slowly killing them, she couldn't imagine the resource-mongering ShinRa needed to place yet another reactor on the stubborn peoples' precious land. Still, Godo could not win, and ShinRa would not accept anything less than total submission. She felt the conflict was now more of a formality, with the dominating faction exercising what they knew the world would think of as _mercy_ rather than simply _refraining from total annihilation because it's bad press_.

Preoccupied with her thoughts, she continued to shadow Lazard through the lobby and past the reception desk, where Ernesta perched upon her chair like a crow perches upon a branch believing it's a bird of paradise. The women shared eye contact for all of two seconds before recognition, followed by contempt, crossed the receptionist's broad features. Isilme snorted mannishly. "Come off it, I'm here with the Director."

"Ernesta, take a day off," Lazard suggested with a dismissive wave and a smile far more superficial than any she had seen from him thus far. The receptionist dug her nails into the desk audibly but didn't argue. Isilme didn't have the chance to provoke or otherwise observe further reactions, as her guide was already up the stairs and standing inside an elevator, patiently holding the door for her. She bounded up after him, brushing past the various personnel milling about the lobby as if she knew the Director personally and they were going to share tea and cookies. The man procured a card from his suit and slid it into the control panel, punched a button, and the door shut without a sound. She felt the elevator surge upwards through the shaft. It wavered moderately beneath her boots.

After the desired floor had been reached, Isilme trailed him around uninterrupted, curving hallway for a considerable length of time, realizing the entire floor must've been devoted to administrative offices. When Lazard stopped at his own, it was so sudden she had to halt sharply to avoid an awkward collision. He led her inside and seated himself at his desk. She sat opposite and waited, light in her eyes and earnest rigidity in her posture. For his part, Lazard was characteristically cool. The office was consistent with the rest of the building, subdued grays and blues, hard metal and fiberglass and the underlying moan of machinery that kept the ShinRa organism alive. It was a white noise that unsettled her. Lazard began tapping at his computer, breaking her musings. When the steady click of keys carried on for a few minutes, Isilme assumed he was entering initial information, and finally he announced, "I have you in for an immediate physical. You will be escorted to the tenth floor. It will be brief, don't worry." A small, reassuring smile. "If all goes well, you will be officially employed under ShinRa and scheduled for mako treatment. But all of that comes later. Doctor McCoy?"

Isilme hadn't noticed the man enter the office, so noiseless was his approach. _That was quick. Wonder if he knew he was going to be needed?_ The doctor was middle-aged, forgettable, and dressed in a plain white coat reminiscent of a scientist's. McCoy beckoned her from the desk with his clipboard, already scribbling furiously, inspecting her from behind overlarge spectacles. Lazard seemed to have already dismissed them, as he began to ignore their presence entirely and sift through papers on his desk, absorbed. Her leash handed over, she was again led through the building.

The next four hours or so were tortuously boring. Excitement ebbed rapidly from her body while they poked and probed and weighed and made her do curious exercises, testing her flexibility, strength, reflexes and patience. None of the doctors spoke except to question, always impersonal. There was only one complication that she could tell—her blood alcohol content showed the evidence of recent heavy drinking—but everything else, by all outward appearances, went swimmingly. Once redressed, excused and left standing in the tenth floor lobby _(actually, waiting room would be more accurate)_, she inferred that the evaluation had gone favorably, as a woman of undistinguished dress rounded the corner of the hall and handed her a pile of clothes and a manila folder marked, in industrious, dark lettering, **Isilme Creel, SOLDIER 3rd Class**. A gasp escaped her throat and all of her spent elation assailed her once again. The woman awarded her with a cryptic look of expectation.

Isilme smiled tentatively, clutching her uniform like an armful of finespun gold. "Thanks, ma'am."

"Everything you need now is in that folder. Good evening." The woman gave a shallow bow and left the quivering initiate alone.

She shifted the tightly-gathered pile to rest in the bend of her elbow and opened the folder, eyes flashing. The papers inside held a letter of welcome she didn't bother to read and one containing information actually pertinent to her interest, listing her room assignment, the time of her mako treatments _(five-twenty-five in the morning, exactly)_ and other crucial tidbits she was glad to have, such as a basic schedule. The rest of the packet was, by all appearances, the mighty Code of Conduct. She stuffed it back into the folder and marched towards the elevator to seek out her room, conflictingly jubilant and lonely without anyone to share it with except the floor tiles. Upon further reflection she realized that after leaving the diner with the Director, her mind and body had been on autopilot as she was shuffled through protocol, and now that she was free of it, the energy had nowhere to go. So, she marched dutifully to the elevator and slipped her new passcard into the panel, destined for the forty-seventh floor, one of three barracks floors, according to the documentation. A short ride. _Should've taken the stairs and gotten some exercise. Says here there's a gym, though..._

The door parted for her, and Isilme was immediately attacked.

_"Nastr!"_ she cursed as a body collided with her own and she was sent backpedaling against the far wall of the elevator, landing ineptly on her bottom under the full weight of whomever had just trucked her, her new effects scattered across the floor and the air quite gone from her lungs. Without breath to blaspheme further, she could only shove and kick at the heavy mass until it suddenly lifted to stand upright, muttering something she didn't catch. Her orientation returned and she could observe clearly her aggressor, standing above her with hand outstretched and expressing a laughable combination of horror, urgency and confusion. He was SOLDIER obviously enough, though of indeterminate rank; his uniform was unlike the usual combinations of color she had familiarized herself with. His eyes were an intense cerulean, hair black as pitch and pointed in every conceivable direction. The door closed again, trapping her with the stranger. Isilme was too proud to accept the hand and righted herself of her own accordance, gathering her fallen goods and fixing her hair—there were appearances to be kept. "Watch it," she mumbled. _Honestly, didn't he ever learn to make sure an elevator is empty before you barrel right in like you own it?_

The SOLDIER shifted his weight nervously and bounced on his toes, letting his arm drop. "Sorry, in a hurry, late for briefing," he explained hastily as she finished assembling her things and jammed her finger into the Door Open button. Nothing happened. She jabbed it again, harder. Harder. The plastic cracked quietly. She was doing her best to ignore the boy but he edged closer, still repentant. "That one takes a bit of work. Here, let me." He reached an arm around her before she could protest and depressed the offending button with his thumb while tapping the metal surrounding it. He inched closer and kicked the bottom of the panel, and the door obediently slipped open. Isilme leapt from the confined space, claustrophobic, and turned to face him where he still held the button, perplexed.

"Aren't you late for something?" Isilme sighed. She didn't like to be run into. She didn't like surprises or awkward situations or forgiving people who irritated her. Her hair still wasn't laying right; she ran her glove through it a few more times. _Nervous habit, what can I say._

The boy rubbed the back of his head. Something was clearly eating at him, as his posture was low. _Like a puppy that just peed on the floor._ The thought was hysterical. "Are you... Isilme?" he asked at length, stumbling over the exotic name, and she quickly turned defensive.

"Yeah?"

The change was instantaneous. He brightened, as gleeful as she had felt not so long ago, and pulled a PHS from his pocket, waving it with exuberance. The abrupt action made her flinch reflexively. "I just got the update! You're the first girl SOLDIER, like, ever! I ca—" The device had started to vibrate and emit loud, penetrating chirps. He answered it long enough to whine, "I'm coming!" before pocketing it again and flashing a disarming grin. "Gotta go." Isilme watched him allow the elevator to close, and he was gone.

_Okay. Whatever, kid._ She hadn't even caught a name, but she made it a point to remember him for future reference. It would not be in her best interest to make enemies _(though the SOLDIER did seem to have an indefatigable spirit, nice boy, I guess)_ and she resolved to be kinder, and more responsive, when she saw him next. _Well, if._

The barracks were narrower than the previous floors she had been on and its halls wound more tightly, connected to more identical doors. Activity was nonexistent save for one passing Third Class who spared her a sheepish half-smile without deterring from or slowing his course.

_According to the paper, I'm supposed to be... here_. It was tucked into a corner and on the door, stenciled characters read **319**. She stuck her card into the slot _(like a ghetto hotel or something)_ and a light on the handle turned green, permitting her entrance. She peered inside. It was little more than a seven-by-seven-foot cupboard containing a steel two-drawered chest, a steel desk and chair, a steel ceiling light fixture, and a steel bunk.

_Huh?_

A two-bedded bunk. The bottom was unmade, the distinct leftover shape of human twisted in the middle. Various personal effects were also draped amongst the rungs of the lower half of the tiered cot. The top mattress held clean, neatly folded sheets, a pillow, and another paper confirming that yes, this was indeed her room. She noticed that transcripts were scattered across the desk as well. Isilme groaned aloud; she had not anticipated having to share a room this miniscule with anybody—let alone what was undoubtably a man. _Did Lazard do this? I'll sleep in the maintenance closet before I have to sleep in the same room as a man._ He might've done this as a test of her obedience. Maybe she irritated him somewhere along the way. Or maybe she was overthinking this and just needed to roll with it.

Isilme flicked the deadbolt to make sure her new _roommate_ didn't walk in while she was changing, and proceeded to make the physical shift from Midgar drifter to SOLDIER of ShinRa. The boots were nearly identical to her own, only marginally less flexible, though that would come with use. The pants were made of a breathable material and fitted her perfectly for length and the shape of her hips, leading her to believe that somewhere in the midst of all the initial testing she had been measured, though it was hard to remember. Turtlenecks were not her favorite but the navy fabric was comfortable, at least. She fastened the belt and buckled the girdle, rolling her shoulders to test the unfamiliar pressure of suspenders on her torso, and then donned the pauldrons. Curious, she removed her blades from their discarded sheath, brought them into a familiar stance, and was instantly irked.

The blades were not long, merely two and a half feet from the base of the steel to the vicious hooks curled at the ends. Both edges were flawlessly honed and held slight inward curves to meet the hooks, the guardless hilts short and etched with silvery, foreign script. One blade bore the likeness of a hare stretched in rapid exodus, apparently from the willowy vixen coiled around the steel of the other. Both motifs were typically invisible until the light flashed upon the artful engravings at the correct angles. They were, respectively, Flight and Pursuit. _And they're damn hard to use with these stupid metal things keeping my arms from moving like they should._ Only momentarily put out, she recalled that lower-ranked SOLDIER were required to utilize a standard longsword and an entirely different technique anyway. _Speak of the devils, should I have one by now? Must come after treatment or something._

Sweeping her hair into a neat ponytail for practicality, she pulled on the helmet. It made her feel important and anonymous and quite lethal. Her peripheral vision had gone to hell, but in terms of protection it beat bare skull by a mile. The gloves came last, also too cumbersome for her tastes.

She piled her old clothing on top of her bed, placing Flight and Pursuit under the mattress in what she hoped was relative safekeeping, and checked for the location of the gym. It would do her well to get accustomed to the weight and feel of the uniform. Also, exercise would ease the tension spreading painfully across her forehead.

Upon further reading of her documents she realized that the gym was for regular employees, and SOLDIERs had something called the Training Room. _Okay. I can deal with that_. She set out for it, opting this time to take the staircase, as a bit of a warmup.

She entered the SOLDIER Floor confidently, intending to search out the Training Room, but her progress was again interrupted by... him, whatever his name was. Her tunneled vision was suddenly filled with his enthusiastic presence and she threw up her arms instinctively in preparation of another charge. All previous plans of amiability conveniently deserted her immediate memory.

"Hey, I'm not gonna tackle you again, don't worry," he assured, slipping his sword back into its sheath and placing his hands on his hips smugly. "What brings you here, eh?"

Isilme hadn't formulated response before a much deeper, authoritative voice reverberated in her helmet. "Zack."

Her frustration with the headgear mounted and she ripped it off. Granted with sight, her heart backflipped and she snapped a salute so violently it gave her a fresh headache. She knew his face and name from the newspaper, but in reality he was so much more formidable. She already had an abundance of respect for the Commander. Hell, the man even nursed stray puppies back to health. _Puppies!_ _What great warrior does that?_ "Good evening, sir," she said quietly, keeping her thoughts to herself, and earned a small smirk.

"At ease. You're Third Class Isilme Creel, I assume?" he asked, giving her a once-over she trembled under.

"Yes, sir."

"I'm Angeal Hewley." _Everyone knows that._ "This is Second Class Zack Fair, and he hasn't stopped talking about you since you've been instated. It's done nothing for his concentration," the First added with a sideways glance to the boy, who shrugged unapologetically. "We've just returned from a mission briefing, b—"

"I wanted to show you around a bit," Zack interrupted, bouncing on his toes, eyes alight with savage determination and—youth. Isilme mused over what kind of insubordination Angeal had to tolerate from him. One of the first things she learned in life was respect and proper form of address. Let alone allowing somebody to complete a sentence. Then again, her upbringing may have been more militant than was typical.

"Yes," Angeal mumbled, dubious. Then he coughed lightly. "I have other matters to attend to, so I'll leave you in the capable hands of my student." The man exited without any supplementary explanation and Isilme checked herself before she could snort with disbelief. _Don't leave me with him!_

"Okay?" Isilme said, voice weak, no sooner than the boy had grabbed her hand to drag her forward, already talking. He was perhaps only three or four years her younger, but the lack of age showed.

Lounge area, materia room, mission briefing... not even the _vending machine_ escaped his introductions, though she begrudgingly admitted to herself that his vitality was infectious and she was undoubtably more knowledgeable for his anecdotes. He was perceptive, answering questions she hadn't thought to wonder at, and even made her feel less like an anomaly under the inquisitive gazes of the few SOLDIERs still haunting the floor as the day waned with his openly unworried demeanor. After much wandering _(and bizarre digression, on Zack's part)_ they eventually snaked around to arrive at a large metal doorway. Her escort didn't take a breath before seamlessly transitioning to his next subject. "...And here's the Training Room. It's a simulator, you can tell it to do all kinds of things. It's great for... well, training. Huh, somebody using it. But I wanted to show it to you..." he trailed, pouting.

Isilme raised a brow, her only show of expression since Angeal had left, and spoke her only full sentences since the beginning of their whirlwind tour. "It's alright, I'm sure it can wait. I don't even have a sword yet." To accentuate this, she spread her hands. They were clearly empty. She felt puzzlement cross her features when he nodded vigorously.

"I know that." She was about to ask how he expected her to do any sort of training without a sword when he commented suddenly, "Hey, I bet whoever's in there won't mind if we join." He fussed with the panel to the side and it opened. "See, not even lock—hm?"

Isilme pressed a hand over her mouth and stared. Zack was blinking furiously.

In the middle of the room, moving too fast for her to track, two men whirled in savage battle, blades colliding with such vehemence her teeth rattled. She saw two discarded virtual reality goggles, and the walls sparked, wounded, having been gouged by the flashing steel. The combatants' exact forms were hard to discern but she did recognize Sephiroth, famed General and someone she held to nothing less than god status. His being here was, by itself, enough to astonish her, though it was how the other man held his ground against him _(even forces him on the defense occasionally)_ that caused her current dumb shock. He was a stranger to her. His duster was a deep scarlet, hair much shorter than the Silver General's and copper in color. She thought she saw the glint of an earring when it caught the anemic lighting. Neither acknowledged her or Zack's existence, or that the simulation was definitely over, or that they were delivering serious damage to their surroundings and to themselves. Bestial snarls escaped the room and echoed down the hall. Both were bleeding, though the copper-haired man more visibly, and when his step faltered from parrying a particularly brutal stroke, Sephiroth took advantage and lashed out with the Masamune in what could only be deadly intent. His opponent was disarmed and his vermillion blade sailed harmlessly to the side, flicked away like a toothpick by the General's well-placed strike, but the man was already feinting to the side _(goddess, he's quick)_, fire gathering with masterful rapidity in his palm until it boiled with seeming sentience.

Zack wore an expression of straight fear, and Isilme understood why. _They're trying to murder each other!_ "Do something," she spluttered to him, afraid that she would be the one unlucky enough to disturb the wrong conflict and meet a premature end, but also worried that the two would continue to wear away at each other until one made a small misstep and lost a limb. _Or something more crucial, like, a head._

The Second nodded once, suddenly intent, drew his own sword, and yelled, "Hey, cut it out!"

Sephiroth complied without hesitation and lowered the Masamune to rest pronely at his side. His adversary, however, had no intention of letting his spell fade, though he let it fly at the General only halfheartedly and it was sidestepped with ease, erupting at the far end of the room and liquefying the metal at its impact site. Its caster ultimately stilled, yet as he did so, the duel seemed to have finally caught up with him and Isilme watched the adrenaline leave his body; he sagged. She also saw the rage in his pale aqua eyes, saw the sneer of his lips. The fineness of his features did nothing to alleviate the virile fury there. "You coward," the man hissed blackly, for Sephiroth only, his voice like silk. There was a break in the General as some sort of pain caused his silver brows to knit together.

"Guys?" Zack called, visibly wanting to do something to help but with too much self-preservation to act on it. Isilme, terrified, had effectively faded mostly out of sight, clutching her helmet as if she intended to use it as a weapon if necessary.

The copper-haired man attempted vainly to conceal his limp as he retrieved his sword and moved to brush past Zack to leave, but the Second bravely placed his hand on a black pauldron, restraining the tempestuous warrior, his query uncharacteristically hushed. "Commander Rhapsodos?" The man inhaled sharply and Zack released his hold as if electrified, letting the Commander stride briskly, if unevenly, out of sight.

Sephiroth gave a fatigued sigh and walked towards the two subordinates with heavy steps while Isilme shivered. She was enraptured by his luminescent, catlike eyes, the color of mako itself, filled with such indecipherable emotion it did strange things to her usually deficient empathy. "Fair, Creel, leave." His tone left no room for argument and they obeyed, all but sprinting to make themselves scarce.

* * *

><p><em>E kastin fel si athest-ri ke i partein nost.<em>

True friends stab you in the front.

* * *

><p><strong>an:** Oh, dear. I've gone and made a female SOLDIER who happens to run into very important characters on her first day. Like we needed another one of these, right? This is for my own enjoyment, really. Call it a writing exercise. If you're going to review, and I doubt you will, because any self-respecting reader of fanfiction stopped at the first paragraph, I only ask that you refrain from bitching about the unoriginality, because I'm quite aware of it. c:

Enjoy, lovely people.

**~Varai**


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